Married Love
by beckyhughes
Summary: A shameless "first night" fic. Rated M because I have no shame. "It may chance that some one into whose hands this book falls may protest that he or she has never felt the fundamental yearning to form a part of that trinity which alone is the perfect expression of humanity" — Marie Stopes, Married Love


**A/N:** While diligently ficcing other things I realized that I never actually did a proper "wedding night/first time" fic, and seeing as how I've been dredging up plenty of angst/auld lang syne in my real life _and_ in all the other stories I'm working on at present, I decided to give it a go to cheer myself up.

Rated M for what I hope are obvious and delightful reasons.

* * *

 _"It may chance that some one into whose hands this book falls may protest that he or she has never felt the fundamental yearning to form a part of that trinity which alone is the perfect expression of humanity"_

— Marie Stopes, Married Love

* * *

 _i. "Each heart knows instinctively that it is only one's mate who can give full comprehension of all the potential greatness in one's soul, and have tender laughter for all the child-like wonder that lingers so enchantingly even in the white-haired."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

"It's likely a bit out of date now, don't you think?" Mrs Hughes whispered — though needlessly, as she and Mrs Patmore were tucked safely away in her bedroom.

"Parts of it may well be, but he'll hardly be the wiser," Mrs Patmore laughed, dropping the dusty book into Mrs Hughes' lap.

"I don't even know why I kept it all these years. . ." Mrs Hughes said quietly, hissing at the plume of dust that seemed to rise up as she brushed her hand across the cover of the tome. At the very least, Mrs Patmore could be sure the book hadn't so much as been cracked open since it was confiscated; Elsie Hughes would never let a _cherished_ book become so decrepit.

"Search me!" Mrs Patmore sighed — but she gave the housekeeper a knowing look. Mrs Hughes only blushed.

Heaving up from her chair, Mrs Patmore brushed off her apron and gave a slight nod as she headed for the door, "Well— I'll leave you to it."

Mrs Hughes attempted a grateful smile, but it looked rather more a frightened grimace.

" _Ach,_ you'll get on just fine," Mrs Patmore said, flicking her wrist dismissively, "You know he loves you, that he's _interested_ —"

"Thanks to _you,_ " Mrs Hughes said.

"That's right!" she laughed, "—and don't you bloody well soon forget it. You'll both be in my debt for favors until you've got one foot in the grave, mark my words."

Mrs Hughes chuckled.

"Anyhow," Mrs Patmore sighed as she reached for the doorknob, "You've got your tea, you've got the book — so just get on with it."

"Goodnight, Mrs Patmore."

"Goodnight, y'old love."

* * *

ii. _"A woman may be, like a man, so swayed by a great love that there is not a day in the whole month when her lover's touch, his voice, the memory of his smile, does not stir her into the thrilling longing for the uttermost union."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

There was no need whatsoever for her to read by candlelight, but something about even her side table lamp seemed too glaring, too revealing, for what she was doing. Even in the privacy of her bedroom— on the eve of her wedding no less — she felt alternately wanton and quite silly.

She hardly lived in a sack; year after year she'd dealt with flirtatious maids and their dalliances, had heard the stories from the village about _Mrs-So-and-So_ with a bastard child. Of course she knew that even the Crawleys had their share of secrets, that even _the blessed Lady Mary_ wasn't a woman without sown oats — even demure Lady Edith with her sallow face and sad eyes — she perhaps had the most trouble of them all.

 _But aye_ , Mrs Hughes thought as she sipped her tea, turning the pages of the tattered book, _they've lived, haven't they?_

She sighed wearily, her eyes growing heavier with each turn of the page. Still, despite her fatigue ( _and, if she were honest, her bashfulness_ ) she couldn't tear her gaze from the text.

 _" . . . in the majority of men desire, even if held in stern check, is merely slumbering."_

At this, she perked up, cocking her head to the side as she considered Charles Carson, _her betrothed, her fiancé, her —_ the cogs of her mind caught upon the word " _lover" —_ but still she thought it. Of course she'd hoped that somewhere beneath the layers of black livery, in the crepuscular corners of the servant's hall, Charles Carson possessed some scintillating, simmering passion. How could he not, when he had — at times over the years — looked upon her in such a way that she felt enkindled by his mere gaze? That with a single lurch of his eyebrow, a knowing, secret nod of his head, a half up-turned twitch of his thin lips, he could set alit every fibre of her; her bones nothing but stacked kindling precariously close to a match.

They were getting on, weren't they? Passion and fire and heat were for the young. Old age, as she'd begun to know it, was a quiet complacence. It was the cold and the ashes, dampness and heavy mists that hung in the air and gave one a rather persistent cough.

She lay her hand against the spine of the book, feeling the grainy pages against her palm. Closing her eyes she imagined herself a fire stoked with old, rotting wood. He, a noble but waterlogged matchbook.

" _Pah_!" she said, slapping her had against her desk, grumbling to herself as she faced the small mirror on her dresser, reaching up to begin unpinning her hair for bed, "There's more than one way to burn, Elsie Hughes."

* * *

iii. _"It often takes several years for eager and intelligent couples fully to probe themselves and to discover the extent and meaning of the immensely profound physiological and spiritual results of marriage."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

She'd closed the book, set it upon her nightstand, turned it over so that the title cover was not visible ( _to whom_ , she wondered sleepily, _God?_ ) — and still, as she tossed and turned in her bed, she found herself reaching for it. Turning on her table side lamp (and _damn the thing_ , even at the midnight hour) she squinted at that pages once more, wondering if she were to only read a few more pages perhaps she would be granted a sense of peace — an assurance of later triumph.

 _"Nevertheless, many unmarried women suffer from sleeplessness as a result of their celibacy, quite unconscious of its cause."_

"Ha!" she said aloud, then immediately put her hand against her mouth, for fear she'd wake the girls.

Surely that was not the cause of her sleeplessness this night — or any preceding sleepless night, which she could almost always account for.

Almost.

 _"The married pair share a bed-room, often even a bed (though this detestable habit is fortunately rapidly decreasing) and so it comes about that the two are together not only at the times of delight and interest in each other, but during most of the unlovely and even ridiculous proceedings of the toilet. Now it may enchant a man once – perhaps even twice – or at long intervals – to watch his goddess screw her hair up into a tight and unbecoming knot and soap her ears."_

She snorted, again, then shook her head, closing the book once more and depositing it onto her night table with a definitive _thud._

"Charles Carson watching me soap my _blinkin'_ ears," she muttered, rolling onto her side and burying her face in the pillows. She yawned, letting her bare feet slide across the cool linens of her bed.

Her eyes shot open and she sat up at once, her heart thumping wildly against her chest as a thought overtook her, then.

"I'll not sleep in this bed ever again," she whispered, laying a hand reverently on the quilt, picking at a loose thread. It unraveled, seemingly endlessly, and with a sharp tug she freed it.

She exhaled, settling back against the pillows, pulling the bedclothes up beneath her chin.

"Tomorrow night I'll be in bed with _him_."

* * *

iv. _"In the world the happily mated pair should be like a great and beautiful light; a light not hid under a bushel, but one whose beams shine through the lives of all around them."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

"You look awfully pretty, Mrs Hughes," Daisy said, shoving a bouquet into the housekeeper's gloved hand.

"You're sweet to think it, let alone say so, Daisy,"

"There's no place for modesty on your wedding day," Miss Baxter smiled, letting her delicate hand rest gently upon Mrs Hughes' forearm, "You look lovely. Truly, you do."

"That coat is something else," Mrs Patmore said, shaking her head in disbelief, "And the think she's going to let you keep it!"

Mrs Hughes only further blushed, "I'll never wear it again."

"You could wear it to _my_ wedding!" Daisy peeped, bouncing excitedly on her heels, "Even if I only have a church wedding in the village like you and Mr Carson, everyone could dress up if they wanted to."

"Go on, Daisy, see if the motor's in the drive. It's half-past, if we don't leave now we'll be late."

Mrs Hughes laughed, raising her pretty, gloved fingers in front of her rose, powdery lips, "I don't see how we could be any later."

Mrs Patmore gaped at her a moment, then rolled her eyes, "At least you got there in the end, that's what counts, doesn't it? And besides, it's not like you were love-sick for him for thirty years!"

Lowering her gaze onto her bouquet of flowers — the scent of the heather familiar and comforting — she felt heat rising up her neck, giving color to her cheeks.

"You haven't loved him for that long, I'd've known about it," Mrs Patmore said, tucking her chin to find the housekeeper's gaze, "Don't go making me think I've lost my touch," she said. Daisy waved from down the hall, calling out that the motor was waiting. Before she took another step, Mrs Patmore gave Mrs Hughes' hand a reassuring squeeze, "And when you toss that bouquet, lob it to me, would ya?"

* * *

v. _"One might compare two human beings to two wires through which pass electric currents. Isolated from each other the electric forces within them pass uninterrupted along their length, but if these wires come into the right juxtaposition, the force is transmuted, and a spark, a glow of burning light arises between them. Such is love."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

She'd changed into a day dress before they'd departed but worn her new coat, letting the lingering feelings of elegance overtake her as the train car chugged along toward Brighton. She'd wanted to wipe the rogue from her face, unpin her hair from its marvelous up-do, but Mrs Patmore had forbade it.

 _"You're a bride, you're supposed to be blushing,"_ she'd said, shoving a picnic basket into her hands.

When they arrived at their hotel suite, it was well into the dinner hour. Charles ( _what an odd, endearing sound — Charles_ ) had tentatively asked her about finding a pub nearby, but she'd demurred, blushing furiously. The truth was, she was tired — the day had begun so very early, when Mrs Patmore, Anna and Miss Baxter had woken her and had spiraled on and on, spinning like the petals the village children tossed in their wake as they left the church.

He seemed relieved, and this quieted her.

"I concur, it has been a wonderful — but long — day," he said, sitting down in a nearby wingback chair, folding his hands in his lap, "I only worry that you'll be hungry."

She smiled, lowering herself down in front of a small vanity so that she could properly unpin her hat.

"I'm not terribly hungry," she said, "But I suppose we could ring for our tea? Surely they'd bring us a tray. A place like this. . ." her voice trailed off. She didn't want him to think she felt it lush, but as the car had pulled up to the front doors, her sharp intake of breath had made him furrow his brow with worry.

"A gift from His Lordship," he'd said, patting her thigh gently, "It's not cost us a penny."

"That's quite generous," she breathed, allowing him to take her hand and help her from the car onto the front steps.

She watched him in the mirror's reflection, his eyes drifting closed as he leaned his head back against the chair. She couldn't remember ever seeing him so relaxed. Even in the dimness of her parlor or his pantry, even after a second glass of sherry, even in the wee hours of a warm morning midsummer after a Garden Party that had gone on for ages — she'd never seen him without a wrinkle in his brow.

Turning back to her own gaze in the mirror, she paused, taken by her own reflection for a moment.

Once she'd been a rather fetching young woman: long, auburn hair that always seemed to curl to one side, soft tendrils that fell against her broad shoulders, framing her elegant neck, her high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Once she'd been quite lovely: spright, clever, quick to laugh — but never unless she was truly amused (a trait she'd attempted to pass on to those giggling young maids — _"if a man's not funny, you needn't laugh."_ ). All the years spent in the fields, trudging along the moors, throwing bails of hay about the loft, gave her a strength that meant she'd never be dainty — not that she wanted to be. She'd never aspired to be the pallid, fainting girls she served. She liked being sturdy, strong — a little crisp at the edges, maybe. A little brash if she had a dram of whiskey. Not that she'd danced a jig or snorted at a naughty limerick in years — but maybe that's where, buried somewhere inside of her, a flame still flickered.

It was rare that she looked at herself so intently, inspected herself in such a tender way. Even in the evenings, rubbing cream on her dry, cracked skin, pulling the pins from her hair — it was always done with an eye to the room, looking for things to be tidied or crevices where mice might play. And now, when she looked the least herself, she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away.

He couldn't see that lass, could he? He'd never known her, couldn't even begin to recognize her. That's the girl that had received many a stolen glance from a dark-haired footmen with emerald eyes and the rowdy village boys with their dirt-stained hands and rascally laughs. That young housemaid, with her starched white apron and cap, not a lick of color on her face but still rosy-cheeked and flushed from scrubbing floors and climbing stairs. That rugged girl with her strong arms and thighs, who could have outrun any of the footmen called upon to play cricket — who, instead, outran their advances, their proposals, their love notes — and instead, ran headfirst into a life that afforded her a loveless title and a little parlor with photographs of relatives she'd never met and letters tied up with red ribbon stuffed into the far reaches of a locked drawer.

As if he'd been privy to her thoughts, he cleared his throat, startling her from her reverie, and asked —

"What were you like as a girl — at the age when — when most girls choose to marry?"

She turned slowly toward him, peering over her shoulder at him first, then turning herself fully to face him, "I wasn't bad looking," she said, reaching up to fiddle with a pin near to her ear, "I was never wispy or refined, but I was what men would call _comely,_ I think."

Charles laughed, a hollow noise in his chest that didn't escape his closed mouth, "I meant what were you like. . .in _personality,_ I suppose. What I'm getting at here really is —" he exhaled, smoothing his palms against his trousers, "Why did you never marry before now? You had at least one other proposal."

"I told you, Mr Carson," she smiled — a toothy grin that told him he ought not have even asked, "I'm not that farm girl anymore. I haven't been for . . . a very long time."

He shifted in his seat and she sensed he hadn't quite received the answer he was hoping for.

Sighing, she stood, pushing her gloves into a more secure place atop the dresser and taking a few steps toward where he sat, folding her hands neatly in front of her middle and giving him the kind of chiding glance she might give a cheeky maid.

"Mr Carson, the very simple truth of the matter is that I did not marry because I did not wish to marry the _one_ man who asked. I had my work — and I needed it desperately, as you well know, — and by the time I arrived at Downton I was old enough to have thoroughly lost my chance. My fate was sealed. The fact that I had not one— but two proposals — in my dotage exceeds even my wildest fantasies," she reached down to gently stroke his cheek, "Especially when one considers that the second proposal came from the only man I'd ever truly loved and _wanted,_ very much, _to_ marry," she laughed, leaning down to kiss his forehead, "It doesn't get any luckier than that now does it?"

"I'm the lucky one," he whispered, laying his hands tentatively atop her hips. She inhaled, meeting his gaze and holding it.

"Are you?" she breathed, letting the backs of her fingers trail the side of his face, bridge the space between his jaw and the length of his neck.

"Yes," he said, a resounding note that sent a shiver up her spine, "Because though it took me _bloody_ epoch to ask, you accepted _me._ "

There was something highly amusing about his devilish little remark, and she pulled her bottom lip beneath her front teeth and eyed him wickedly. Whatever had flitted about inside of her all day had come to settle somewhere low and rooted in her core, thrumming a long chord that only he seemed capable of sustaining.

The anticipation of when he would plunged his hands down on the chord again was beginning to madden her — and though she felt some trepidation about what the night was meant to bring for them, how they would be forever changed, the sorcery of the building melody had enchanted her.

* * *

vi. _"So complex, so profound, are woman's sex-instincts that in rousing them the man is rousing her whole body and soul"_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

Beryl Patmore, in all her infinite wisdom, had forbade Elsie to wear her corset beneath her day dress once she'd changed from her wedding gown.

 _"Why prolong the matter unnecessarily?" she'd quipped, yanking the old, frayed corset from Elsie's hands, "Besides, this thing is a sight for sore eyes, in'it? You were so worried about what he'd think of you in your intimates but still, if it'd not been for me, he'd've gotten his first glimpse of you in this ragged old thing!" She huffed, tossing the corset onto the bed, "The ladies don't even wear them anymore, you know that don't you? They're gone with the wind! Fallen out of style!"_

 _Mrs Hughes coughed, "Maybe for a slip of a girl but not for us!"_

 _"Speak for yourself," Mrs Patmore said, pointing to her bosom, "When this one finally goes I won't be purchasing a new one!"_

As Elsie stood in the small bath adjacent to their bedroom, she couldn't help but silently praise the cook, her friend, who had somehow foreseen this moment and saved her the hassle of having to doff layers upon layers — meaning all she had to do was slip into the nightgown she'd purchased and shuffle back to bed where he'd be waiting; himself eagerly pyjama'd.

It wasn't a spectacular nightgown by any means, nothing extravagant, but it wasn't quite so matronly as the one she typically wore ( _beneath a thick housecoat she'd had nearly as long as she'd been at Downton_ ). It was a bit more modern than anything else she owned and she silently hoped its stylish leanings wouldn't spurn him. It was hardly scandalous: white cotton with lace trim, a square neck and, yes, she admitted, a higher hemline. She wore no brassiere, having not quite figured _that_ contraption out, though she knew some of the maids had — and the nicest pair of knickers she owned. They were nothing special, but they weren't tattered at the edges. Mrs Patmore's voice echoed in her head as she closed her eyes, taking one more deep breath before stepping out:

 _"No one's clapped eyes on him without his togs for years."_

She gave herself one more lingering look in the washroom looking glass — thankful that it was just high enough that she couldn't see what she looked like from the neck-down, lest she lose her nerve entirely. She'd washed the color from her face ( _why give him false hope?_ ) and unfurled her hair from its elaborate up-do so that it hung in a narrow braid down her back. She laughed quietly to herself, thinking about how all the girls were now lobbing their hair off as was en vogue. Unruly, billowing tresses were a thing of the past. Not that she'd ever had occasion to do much with her hair other than to style it up out of her face. She'd spent decades with about ten inches more hair than she likely needed, but had never had the mind to cut it. It was the last remaining part of her that, even with its gray tendrils, reminded her of what it felt like to be young.

Turning down the light as she stepped into the bedroom, she kept her eyes on the carpet as she shuffled toward the bed — when she did finally look up, he was sitting at the foot of it, wrapping a robe tighter around his union suit.

When he looked up, a smile twitched at his lips. She huffed, somewhere between a nervous laugh and a cough, and reached up to pull her braid round and settle it over her shoulder.

"I hope my eagerness has not offended you," he said quietly, sitting completely still on the bed. She felt a giggle well up in her throat at the contrariness of it.

"Oh, Mr Carson, if this . . . _stoic restraint_ is your display of eagerness perhaps I _ought_ to be offended."

He raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth slightly agape.

And then, he laughed. A little _yip_ that started high and then settled deep in his chest, a rumble that made her stomach flip. He pat the bed next to him, beckoning her to come sit. She did, lowering herself onto the far end of the bed, then, on a moment's thought, inched closer to him so that there thighs were touching.

A rush of scent washed over him and he found himself temporarily lost to the overwhelming aroma of a woman — not just any woman, but the woman he loved. He'd known the scent of a woman over the years; the powdery, floral air that hung about the woman he would lean down next to, pouring wine and getting just a hint of the perfumes they dabbed behind their ears. Downstairs the maids ran about, sweat glistening at their temples, the musty scent of attics clinging to their aprons. Occasionally one of them would be given a proper dressing down for spritzing some God awful cheap cologne on their wrists, the scent of it hanging in the servant's hall making it smell like a brothel.

Not that he'd know, of course; but that's what the footmen would muse.

Her scent was always much the same — she, like he, smelled of Downton. Whatever was suspended in the air; a pot roast, an arrangement of spring flowers, raspberry preserves boiling on the stove or the ever-present odor of a crackling fireplace became the fragrance they all wore.

The whiff he got of her now, he supposed, must be only her — as he might a wine, he enjoyed for a moment the subtle whiffs of their wedding that still clung to her hair ( _heather, decadent buttercream frosting, the almost confectionary scent of her rogue and lip color_ ). Then, beneath it, something else that he couldn't quite name tickled his nose and made something begin to stir, an arousal of all senses. A perfect storm.

"I don't claim any expertise on the subject but I shouldn't think we ought not go straight to the act," he said quickly, raising his hands by way of surrender to their shared uncertainty about how to proceed.

"I agree," she said softly, "Perhaps if we —" she flicked her eyes toward the pillows, "If we lie down it might put us in the proper frame of mind?"

He nodded, "Yes, that sounds about right."

Making to remove his robe, he hesitated a bit at his underthings. She paused in her drawing-back of the quilts, looking up at him.

"Do you think I ought to —" he eyed his union suit with a slight wince.

She sighed, "I think eventually we're both to — right? No reason to prolong it."

He nodded again, beginning to unbutton it from the neck-down, "I won't be entirely in the nude, I've drawers on."

She blinked, "As do I — beneath the nightgown but —" she hesitated, lowering her voice, "I've not worn my corset."

Pushing his union suit down and letting it pool at his feet, he tipped his head slightly at her, a bit of a glint in his eye.

"You've Mrs Patmore to thank for that," she smiled, biting her lip as she tried not to let her gaze linger too obviously on his now bared chest.

"You'll have to remind me to send her a note of thanks," he said, stepping out of his discarded clothes and getting under the covers, settling back against the headboard before looking up at her expectantly, "You don't have to remove your nightgown if you don't want to, Elsie."

 _Elsie,_ his name on her lips with such a boyish lilt to it. It was sweet and made her heart quicken. In one brave motion she pulled the nightgown up by its hem and yanked it over her head. When she let her gaze fall onto him, with her sharp breaths and flushed cheeks, she was almost amused to find his eyes focused almost trance-like upon her naked chest. She gave him a moment, then moved to crawl beneath the covers herself, leaving just a few inches of space between them.

A quiet moment passed between them, each of them with their heads pressed against the headboard of the bed, their hands set atop the covers, neither one sure of what was next. Then, with a shaking breath, he reached over and wrapped his fingers around hers, stroking her thumb lightly.

"May I kiss you?" he asked, bringing her fingers to his lips.

She turned slowly to face him, letting her eyes flutter closed only as his lips touched hers — softly, at first, like a bee hovering above a petal — but after a moment they both began to deepen the kiss. She felt her mouth open and with nothing to say she merely let his breath confuse itself with hers. Dizzily she just-barely registered the feeling of his large, warm hands coming to rest on her hip, giving her middle a light squeeze. Her arms, seemingly of their own accord, rose up and rested atop his shoulders, her hands coming round to cradle his head.

When he pulled back, both of them heaving to catch their breath, she thought he made some faint pleased little sound, but the whoosh of blood in her ears made it somewhat hard to tell. His hand still at her hip, he looked down at her bosom and then back up to her face, trying to find a way to ask for what he wanted — and perhaps more so, grappling with the realization that he wanted it.

* * *

vii. _" The sensitive interrelation between a woman's breasts and the rest of her sex-life is a well-established fact, and there is a world of poetic beauty in the longing of a loving woman for the unconceived child, which melts in mists of tenderness toward her lover, the soft touch of whose lips can thus rouse her mingled joy." — Marie Stopes, Married Love_

"Go on," she said softly, and watched in awe as he brought his hand to her breast, cupping it gently.

"They're heavier than I thought," he said, though it was clearly a thought he'd not meant to verbalize.

She chuckled, "What did you think they were filled with— _air_?"

He blinked, his face turning a deep scarlet, "No, no — only I —" he furrowed his brow thoughtfully, letting his thumb graze her nipple, "I suppose I wonder if they hurt you. Being so heavy."

She tipped her head, a small, surprised grin crossing her face, "That's what corsets are for, partly," she said, reaching up to gently cup his cheek, "When I was younger they would, at times, give me a sore back. Particularly if I'd been leaning over to scrub the floors," she laughed, kissing him sweetly, "But it's been a very long time since I've done any of that."

"They're remarkably soft," he said as he continued to marvel, "Are you sure this doesn't hurt?"

 _Oh, his sweetness,_ she thought, her throat choked with tears, "No, it doesn't hurt. Not at all."

"Not even here?" he said, running the pad of his index finger along a tiny, puckered scar.

"I don't even notice it anymore," she said, but she wasn't sure why she'd said it. _Of course_ she noticed it; the scar from the needle — which had seemed impossible large, which _did_ hurt, more than she had been prepared for it — but nothing had come to claim her, then. No cancer. Nothing pernicious.

"What's it from — if I may ask?"

She gasped; _he didn't know, he never had._ He'd known, of course, that she might be ill. Knew it could have been cancer. But where? Never had anyone uttered to him the word _breast,_ a word that hissed along the tongue of only doctors and — what, the bawdy girls who sold their wares for a tuppence?

"A few years ago. When. . .when Dr. Clarkson thought, perhaps, I was ill. . ."

It clicked straight away, of course. He'd not forgotten, never for a moment had he forgotten that he'd lived hanging in the balance for days, for weeks, wondering if she'd die before he could love her.

"And this was —?"

"A biopsy. With a needle, you see," she said quietly, "To test for the cancer, but it wasn't there. It was all fine in the end. But I've got a bit of a scar to remind me that life's finite, I suppose."

She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling extraordinarily exposed. She shivered, gooseflesh running the length of her arms. He exhaled smoothly, letting his hand fall from her breast.

The absence felt so suddenly cold and she looked up.

"I should like it if. . .if you'd continue on," she said, reaching for his hand and pressing it against her breast again, "This touch doesn't hurt. It doesn't frighten me."

"I'm afraid it frightens _me_ ," he whispered, in the lowest rumble of a voice he could manage, "I'm suddenly finding myself very much afraid of hurting you."

"You won't," she said, pressing his palm against her flesh, "I'm made of stern stuff."

He smiled, a wisp of hair falling down onto his forehead, "They're quite charming, really. . ." he said simply, his eyes lighting up as he regained his confidence in fondling them.

She laughed, a throaty naughty little sound, "They used to be even more so when I was young. I wasn't a bad looking lass, you know. I wasn't by any means stunning but," she shrugs, "I was quite clearly fecund, I suppose."

His breath caught and she felt his hand stiffen against her, "You're not now, though? _Fertile,_ that is?"

She grinned, "No, I'm not. I haven't been for quite some time."

"That's what they're meant for . . ." he said, more of a question really, "But that's all passed us by, hasn't it?"

"I suppose," she looked up at him, cocking her head coyly, "We'll just have to find some other use for them."

They allowed their gaze to linger on one another's a moment longer, then he slowly let his fall to her breasts and his hands upon them. The quiet of the room gave him courage, and without circling them back into a meeting of the minds, he simply lowered his head and kissed her collarbone. Then, lowered, at the soft, milky flesh just above her breast. She wrapped her fingers around his shoulders, smoothing a hand around his upper back so that she could press him tighter against her, urging his mouth to continue its investigations.

"It's _sweet_ ," he breathed, his eyes closed and his mouth trembling with mystification, "Your skin is soft, and honeyed and —" he lifted his head, taking her mouth again, drinking it up, "I can taste the tea from the train, bergamot—"

He kissed her hungrily, moving closer so that he could gently ease her back against the pillows of the bed, letting one hand come to rest against the dip of her waist, the other above her head, bracing him.

His lips, too, tasted of tea — the slightest hint of the champagne they'd had at the reception. His hair, which she'd begun to run her fingers through, smelled of pomade as it nearly always had, but there was just a hint of a cologne — something nice, a gift from His Lordship, more than likely — and the woodsmoke scent that lived on his skin, on all their skins, like a second flesh.

As he lowered his hand, finding the tops of her knickers, she wondered if he'd know how to undo them. It wasn't particularly difficult — just a tie, which even the least nimble of fingers could attempt — but she pulled back from his mouth just long enough to inform him.

"Thank you," he breathed, moving his hands around to the small of her back and releasing the loose knot in one, fluid motion. The fell from her waist quickly and as she reached for them, pushing them down and off to mingle amongst the sheets, he too lowered his undergarments with the practiced finesse of a man who could, at a moment's turn, be a valet if the situation called for it.

The sheets were cool against them, but the heat from the other body in the bed radiated quickly, warming them. She felt flushed everywhere that she could feel flushed — and in a few particular places that she couldn't say she'd ever felt as such. They lay face to face, his arm draped over her, pressing into the curve of her lower back, bringing her closer still. She curled her fists beneath her chin at first, then flattened them against his warm chest, the tiny coils of gray hair tickling her palms.

She felt the firm heat of him against her upper thigh.

 _I might not be a woman of the world, but I don't live in a sack!_

She bit her lip, pressing her forehead against his chest and sighing heavily.

"What's the matter?" he said, his voice rolling through his chest and her simultaneously, as though she were perched between the ladder of his ribs, "It's perfectly fine to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous, you old _numpty,_ " she said, lifting her face, her eyes damp with tears, "I'm _relieved_ and delighted and —" she shook her head, the words not meaning enough. She swooped up, wrapping her arms round his neck and kissing him squarely, running her foot along the length of his thigh and rewarded with a low, resounding moan.

* * *

viii. _"We have studied the wave-lengths of water, of sound, of light; but when will the sons and daughters of men study the sex-tide in woman and learn the laws of her Periodicity of Recurrence of Desire?"_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

He pressed his thigh gently against her, the sensation making all his hair stand on end as though he'd been shocked by an electric current. Her response— a sharp intake of breath, her hand shooting out into the air behind his head, as though she too had be struck — told him that the spot was something indescribably good.

Slipping a hand down between them, beneath the covers, he gently pushed her over onto her back. Her arms unfurled from his neck, lay lazily above her head, stretched out like a Baroque muse. Her gaze fixed on his face, she stilled her body in anticipation of his touch; the tentative pat of his finger tips against her soft stomach, the walking of them lower, to that place that used to wake her in the night with its dreamy clangor — her body trying to remember a memory unmade.

As soon as he'd laid his hand upon her, he recoiled, his hand hitting the blankets with an audible, trapped, _thwat._ She blinked, startled.

"I'm sorry," he said, "If you think it too _wanton_ ,"

"I don't," she said firmly, locking eyes with him, "I want you to."

The assuredness in her voice somehow calmed and ruffled him all at ocne. He supposed, ruffled him in a not quite terrible manner. He let his hand gently fall back against her, his fingers resting against the soft, damp bramble there. Realizing all at once his philistinism, he looked at her rather apologetically, hoping that she might carry in her some kind of transcendent wisdom.

"Gently," she whispered, "As though . . . as though you were buffing a very delicate piece of silver."

He considered this a moment, then pressed his fingers together and set them against her with a light pressure, beginning to hesitantly press against it with the refined, circular motion he would employ to polish the curve of a spoon.

" _Heavens_ ," she breathed, her eyes shuttering closed against the feeling, her fingers gripping the sheets as though she'd fall off the bed at any moment.

"Am I being too rough?" he asked, watching her face intently.

She shook her head, digging her heels into the mattress. A sound — not a word, or even a cry, just a feeling that danced at the back of her teeth — rose from her lips and she opened her eyes, meeting his.

"A bit faster," she said, "—and lower your hand just a tad . . ."

He nodded and complied dutifully, quickening his ministrations all the while keeping a keen and caring eye on her face. Her breathing became deeper, her chest heaving and he wanted to watch the gentle swell of her breasts with each breath but he couldn't tear his eyes from her pretty, flushed face, the way her mouth curled into words she couldn't say, widening into a smile as she laughed, tears beginning to sparkle at the corners of her closed eyes.

He saw it before he heard or felt it; a rosey blush that began on her chest, rising up the length of her long, elegant neck, and coloring her cheeks brighter than any powder. She cried out, her body going entirely stiff for a moment — then, the slightest of twitches, a tiny heartbeat against his fingertips.

Rather stunned, he didn't move for several minutes until she'd calmed, her breath returning, cobalt eyes opening and fixing upon him as though they'd just invented fire ( _and maybe they had_ ). He waited on baited breath for her to speak, to explain — and after another moment, she pushed herself up on her elbows, shaking a fallen strand of hair from her face as she turned to him.

"Charles Carson you are truly proficient in every sense of the word," she said, her smile bewitching him, and he couldn't stand to have his hands away from her for a second, so he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her effortlessly onto his side of the bed, settling her onto his lap as he lay back against the headboard, reaching up to tuck a curl of hair behind her ear.

"Shall we make a go of it?" he breathed, "Despite my advanced age I can assure you everything is still in working order."

She raised an eyebrow, "I'm well aware," she flicked her gaze down a moment, then back up at his face, before she lifted her hips and nodded toward him, "I'm ready."

He exhaled slowly, but his motions were quick as he fumbled beneath the sheets, feeling first for the convergence of her thighs, then himself.

"It might hurt," he warned, wincing a bit.

She only nodded resignedly, "I know, but that's no fault of yours."

"Still," he said uncertainly, gripping her hips.

"I've suffered more for less," she said, threading her fingers around his ear lobe and stroking it gently.

"I'll go very slowly," he said, eyeing her.

"I trust you," she said, bracing her hands against her shoulders as she gently lowered herself onto him with a sharp intake of breath that hissed through her teeth. She dug her nails into his shoulders and bit the inside of her cheek, muffling a whimper.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, furrowing his brow at her, "Perhaps if we —" he gently moved, laying her into the cradle of his arms as he lowered her onto the bed. Resting her against the pillows, he waited for her to exhale, "Better?"

"A bit, yes," she said, adjusting to the sensation.

Having not seen _it,_ she had anticipated he would be sizable, just given his over stature and build. Not that she had any basis for comparison, but the feeling of being full in a place that she never thought had any breadth at all, of a pleasantly painful stretching, made her all at once vulnerable and powerful.

He may have been the one to sheath himself inside of her body, but it was she who held him there.

She let her fingers crawl the length of his back, feeling the wings of his shoulder blades work beneath her hands as he began to very slowly and deliberately pull himself back before gently inching forward. His shudder breaths informed her of his building pleasure, of his tenderness and pure unfettered hope that he wouldn't be satisfied too quickly.

Wearing love on her face like a veil, she gazed at him, watching his expressions with curious affection as his face contorted in ways she'd never seen; wearing his pleasure with an abandon that she wouldn't have thought could have survived inside such a tightly-laced man.

Her observations were only interrupted once he'd begun to quicken his pace and the feelings from before began to rebuild inside of her. She heard herself begin to pant, a staccato _heh heh heh_ that only seemed to bring him closer to his own release, as he silenced them by pressing his wet mouth against hers, kissing the corner of her lips, her cheek, the tip of her nose and then —

* * *

ix. _"The act gives the most intense physical pleasure which the body can experience, and it is a mutual, not a selfish, pleasure."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

It wasn't the same as before, but quieter. A deep, rolling thunder that echoed along his body and made him pause, looking down at her in bewilderment.

"Has something come undone?" he breathed, stilling his body in fear.

She pursed her lips, looking up at him from beneath her long eyelashes as she struggled to regain her breath, "You might say that," she said, the last of the small thumps weakening, leaving her encased in a most pleasant thrum.

"Shall I stop?"

"No, Charles," she breathed, taking his face in her hands and pulling it down so that she could feel his breath against her lips, "That's supposed to happen. You've _pleased_ me."

"Oh," he said, "Like before only — ?"

She nodded, "Only you felt it, didn't you? From the inside?"

His eyes went dark, hungry, and she felt him begin to twitch, his breathing shaking and rolling inside of his chest, producing a low rumble that filled her as he kissed her suddenly.

"Oh, Elsie," he breathed, hot against her mouth, "Oh, you've given me such a — such a precious gift."

She knew he was close, and she wasn't sure how she knew precisely, only that her hands pressed against the length of his spine, urging him to go deeper still, to be as close as he possibly could.

"I love you," he whispered, ravenously kissing her neck.

"I love you too," she soothed, her fingers gently mussing his hair, and that was the beginning and end of everything, where she felt him tense and shudder beneath her, his release inside of her something so incomprehensible and yet explicitly human — her mind wondered why she wasn't repulsed, why she didn't feel violated or spent or promiscuous.

All she felt in that gossamery after, when he cuddled up against her chest like a contented infant with his head on her chest listening for the _thump thump thump_ of her heart and his fingers drawing lazy lines along the underside of her breast — all she felt was loved.

* * *

x. " _When the sex-rite is, in every sense, rightly performed, the healing wings of sleep descend both on the man and on the woman in his arms."_ — Marie Stopes, Married Love

They hadn't called down for tea, but it didn't matter — as they lay in bed, each was perfectly satiated and happy to stay there forever, if time allowed. They'd only rose long enough for a quick wash, and though Elsie had considered putting on her nightgown when she felt the cool air of the room prickle her skin, when she held out his hand and pulled her back into the warm bed, she felt no need.

She lay with her head on his chest, her hands curled beneath her chin, both of them dozing lightly as the motors passed outside, creating a gentle lull that made for a peaceful underpinning to their sleepy conversations.

"Imagine if we were young," he yawned, gently stroking her back with his fingertips.

"If I do I'll only have regrets," she sighed, running her toes along the length of his calf, "I'd rather just enjoy what we have now. We could ruminate all day on what we missed, but at least we got there in the end."

He kissed her hair, chuckling as he let his eyes close, "All those years chastising maids and footmen for their smutty deliberations. The lucky ones who found their loves that young. What they would say if they only knew."

"Oh, they know _now_ ," Elsie laughed, "They're all having their tea, tittering on in the servant's hall."

"Maybe they had begun to place bets, he said, "Foolish children, all of them!"

She hummed happily, curling herself closer against him, "This is precisely why we had to keep them from it. Neither of us would have made it to head of household if we had this to compete with."

"You're probably right," he said, "And in the end we were afforded both, weren't we? So perhaps we were the lucky ones after all."

"It certainly feels that way to me," she yawned.

A peaceful pause fell between them, the night crowding in and pulling them each deeper toward their dreams. He wrapped his arms around her, his breaths rising and falling as he drifted into proper sleep.

She followed soon after; a sweet and knowing smile gracing her lips.

 _"Nevertheless, many unmarried women suffer from sleeplessness as a result of their celibacy, quite unconscious of its cause."_

The next morning she would wake, still in his arms, and say she'd never slept so well.


End file.
